Tears of Friendship
by Whelpmeister
Summary: Elaine Risley revisits Toronto yet again, to find herself going to the Geurtena exhibit for inspiration and respect for her late friend. But her childhood traumas by her "friends" may start to remind her of a certain someone... Continues on from Cat's Eye.


**A/N** : I own nothing. Not Cat's Eye nor Ib. The paintings also belong to kouri.

Years are not immutable, but rather, ever changing. Some have three hundred and sixty five days, others have three hundred and sixty six. Every year has a different amount of days. Although my brother, Stephen, told me this, I still use the term "year" like a normal person.

It has been twenty years since my last visit to Toronto. I still hate it, no doubt, but it seems different from before. What was considered a world class city before has transformed to the many skyscrapers that line the horizon. Too much has changed with the city, but the city itself is not what I am looking for.

I look for the **Weiss Geurtina exhibit** , which was dedicated to my friend, who died in the 1960s. He was a strange, old, tall man who always wore an eggshell-colored long sleeved shirt. He wore a crooked nose, which seemed to curl, even like a shrimp, when he thought something was strange. He always looks like he is seeing something else, and was always pale as a ghost. But nonetheless, he would paint mysterious (if not disturbing) abstract works that even the most prestigious scholars would return confused.

I head into the gallery, **my** old gallery. Compared to the twenty years that past, I see colors of every type. The red streaks along with the green models, the rainbow strokes, and I also recall...

 _Abyss of the Deep_

 _"A world where man will never stand...to realize that world, I decided that I would engrave it on a canvas."_

I remember what he called the painting. In truth, It is not known whether it can be considered a painting at all; it was like an actual pond - filled with various fish and the realistic waters. It actually almost scared me - it has gold plated handrails which where interlaced with the scarlet rope that was absolutely perfect - it had no frays, no blemish whatsoever. I remember that I was not supposed to focus on the the guard rails, but rather, the painting. The painting that seems to have a massive hole in the center, filled with water, it never has a definite end. It, unlike myself, is _endless_.

I dislike the word. It shows infinity, something impossible. Unlike Stephen.

Unlike Cordelia.

Disliking what I see, I head upstairs, seeing the lamps, burning a flame that is artificial; false. I see no moths, no bugs, no flies whatsoever near the lamps that must also have been designed by my friend. I halt when I see headless statues, wearing clothes that were scandalous in my home town. They are called _Death of an Individual_ \- they are all the same - only their clothes tell them apart. I never liked them, they always seemed the same. They seemed new however; I never recalled him creating sculptures.

 _"Elaine, you BETTER come here! NOW!"_

I hear Cordelia as a child. Her authoritative voice, commanding me to go past the curve. It seems ominous - as if a dark aura crept out. I went there anyways to see another painting. A mash of vibrant colors - I see roses, paintings, and shadows which seem to walk every which way.

And then the lights went out.

All is dark, and silent. No body else is heard, it feels like everyone laugh. I do not know if I have blacked out or if everyone has disappeared. I feel my way way across the wall when I feel something wet. Something moist, something warm. _Blood._ Although I cannot see the red color, I smell it, and notice it made writing on the wall.

 _Come down and play with us, Elaine._

I step back in slight surprise. Geurtena never would make horror pieces like this. He seemed to detest them himself. But pushing away that thought, I start heading down the stairs, which seemed to have to turned to cold, icy cobblestone. I hear footsteps come and fade, and end with a splash of water. I follow, and notice something change to Abyss _of the Deep_ \- someone had actually _went inside the painting_. I notice that one of the handrails are missing, and that the floor, which was also now cobblestone, wet. Then, I feel a cold hand push me down.

" _Come play!"_

I recognize the voice, and attempt to look back, but it is too late. A shadow appears, but I can not make any facial recognition - I only see a shadow of a little girl in a long dress that I seem to remember in my childhood.


End file.
